The Last Confession
by alexis789
Summary: Thyra was a descendant of an ancient wizarding family infamous for hereditary madness, but also a broke orphan, left with nothing but traces of old glory and terror, when they first met. Many years after having mysteriously disappeared, a whisperer to dragons and Tom Riddle's closest ally reveals her memories to Dumbledore, together with all the secrets long hidden within them.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _"I knew him, once... many years ago._

 _...there is no redemption for me."_

* * *

 _Past_

Flames dancing in the night, intense, stifling, warmth in the air, on her cheeks, in her eyes... Every night, the same dream.

This night she didn't dream. At last, it's coming true.

Dusk slowly fell over the forest, wrapping it in mystic silence. It was a place of old incantations, where magic was born, ground her ancestors had walked hunderds of years ago. Thyra looked up to the castle in the distance, a sight behind which sky burned in blood-red color. She breathed in the scent of old wood, incense and forest freshness that felt in the air; then slowly knelt, feeling dry, earthy ground between her fingers.

Blurry visage of skinny, pale silhouette could be grasped through the thick smoke, heavy with essence of magical herbs and burning wood. The face wasn't recognizable until he approached her, with despair evident on his ashy, tired face. ''I'm asking you for the last time," the man said in a hoarse voice. ''Don't.''

Thyra shook her head, lacing fingers together with his. She gently caressed his cheek, ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair, the way a mother would when soothing a child's fear, hoping that he could grasp the intensity of devotion she felt for him at that moment. Endearment, fondness, but never love.

"It will be fine."

With these words, Thyra turned her back to him, and never looked back. Walking down to the place chosen long before she was born, once again she breathed in deeply, taking in all the quiet strength of this haven of her dreams with it. With a swift wave of her wand, almost singing in language of the Gods the incantation she'd always known, but never understood – Thyra smiled.

She did understand now.

* * *

 _Present_

"I knew him, once… many years ago."

The room was lit only by faint candle flame that flickered with every spoken word. Despite this, she could see that familiar face very clearly. Though time had etched deep wrinkles on its skin and faded the auburn color of the man's hair, behind the shadow of age, piercing blue eyes that carefully observed her were as lively as they had been so many years ago.

"If you want to help me," he said quietly, "You have to tell me everything you know. Have it in your mind how important it is. The more I find out about Tom Riddle's past, the better I understand it, the greater are chances of weakening him. And for you, it might, perhaps, mean redemption."

There wasn't a trace of joy behind her laughter. "And I will be forgiven? For everything I've done? You know so little, Dumbledore.'' Thyra's mouth tightened beneath the shadow of a hood that hid her face. ''I neither want nor hope for that. There is no redemption for me.''

The silence hung for several moments. "…but I will tell you everything. From beginning to end. That is the least I can do… _for myself_. Nothing can ever be a revenge strong enough for what he'd been doing to me...for years."

Driven by the feeling that overwhelmed her, she pulled down her hood, and revealed face mutilated by a scar that stretched from her left eye down to the chin, twisting her lips into a permament grimace. The years did not treat her kindly, leaving once youthfully glowing, sweet-smelling skin pale and wrinkled, half-hidden beyond dark hair, but Dumbledore knew her, as she knew him.

"It's my doing," her gnarled forefinger pointed at the scar, answering to question reflected on his face. "This is only a meaningless, tiny part of a story." It brought her pleasure to see her words disrupt the calmness of Dumbledore's expression, even for a moment.

"I'm ready to hear your story," he said, "And to not judge you, no matter what I learn. Speak freely.''

A bitter smile twisted Thyra's lips. "Had that ever been important to me, we wouldn't be here now."

She took a deep breath, and not being able to resist the urge, grabbed the so far untouched glass of wine stood on the table in front of her, and drank bottoms up, letting distant memories relive, sharpen up, and overwhelm her.

"It all began," for a moment, a trace of whilom wit felt in her voice, "when I was born."


	2. Dragon's child

**II - Dragon's child**

"… _he'd gladly listen to all of her stories, especially the ones about her family past, during which some strange kind of greed curved his handsome features… with every spoken word of her pure-blooded, powerful, corrupted family, her worth in Tom's eyes grew…''_

* * *

 _Past_

"This old heart of mine is filled with joy, now that we are reunited after so many years."

Night air was heavy with the scents of summer, irises and wine. On the porch in front of a tall house of stark white walls, sat the remaining Drakuleshti family, gathered for dinner again after so many years. An old man with snowy white hair and dignified posture age could not break, stood up from seat at the head of the table, holding a glass of cherry wine in his hand. In his calm expression one could glimpse weariness and wistfulness, hidden behind firm, pale blue eyes.

Garlan Draculeshti in his eighty years felt both the sweet and bitter tastes of life, and as the eldest living member of noble, pure-blooded family of foreign descent that could still be felt in accent and manners of its members, lived on to see the line preserved. Centuries of marrying eldest sons and heirs to their sisters to keep the bloodline pure, almost brought them to a downfall. The core of their ancestry, pride and treasure they carried both in name and blood, was long gone – the last dragon of the house Drakuleshti had died three hundred and seventy three years ago. After, the family was left only with haughtiness and old glory that was carried on through the generations.

Dragon's blood must remain pure, but Garlan decided to change the situation. Against his parents' desire, against the tradition of his ancestors he married his first cousin instead of his sister – the same way many other pureblooded families did. The marriage was happy and steady, but remained childless for a long time, which poisoned his mind with thoughts of curse that might have befallen them for rejecting the custom followed blindly for centuries before. But then, unexpectedly, spring came into their lives in shape of a girl who will grow to be the most beautiful woman of her time, and then was only a spark of life in her mother's belly.

That girl now sat at his right, and had blossomed into an enchanting woman, with pale complexion and jet black hair. There was something enigmatic and haunting in the calm expression of her dreamy bright eyes, thought she seemed to be distant and even unhappy.

"My brothers and sisters left this world early. A part of me died with them and Rhaenesa's mother. Here we are gathered tonight, to arrange the marriage between the two hopes of our family. Theodor," he said, turning to the young man,"your mother and I were bound by far more than blood. There was a friendship between us that overcame many obstacles. This is why I entrust you with my daughter, and believe with all my heart that you will treat her as she deserves."

Rhaenesa's sad eyes glanced a man that sat by Theodor. The one she wanted, and could never have.

She married her first cousin, son of her late aunt, and there was no love between them. They both paid dearly for it, as did their family, and in the end, the entire wizarding world.

* * *

Used to admiration, haughty for her beauty and intellect, Rhaenesa could not stand living with her cold and distant husband, and during years of marriage felt no love neither for him nor for the daughter she bore him. Their fights became more and more frequent, they screamed swearing words and hexes, until one had a tragic outcome.

Thyra remembered that fight many years later, despite being a child when it had occured. She heard shouting that came from the living room, shouting that grew louder with each passing moment, and she did what she would often do when they argued - sat curled up on the floor, looking at the wall clock with steel dragon wrapped around it, and counted seconds until they would stop, trying to match her pounding heartbeat to the hands on the clock. But, this time, they didn't stop.

In the end there was a bang. A loud, deafening bang, that frightened her like nothing ever did – and even before she ran down the stairs, she had known.

They were dead.

The hatred that existed between them almost since the day they first met culminated in a worst possible way. They killed one another, leaving a mark Thyra will carry her entire life – both because of the sight she beholded and the judgment that would follow her every step.

And even before she could get herself together, the doors of half-demolished family house closed behind her, and she was in front of a grey, ramshackle building in the middle London, with a suitcase heavier than she was. A woman from the Ministry who took Thyra there – by car, in a Muggle fashion – glanced at her every other moment with a strange mixture of pity and wariness on her face. She got back into the car quickly after taking out Thyra's suitcase, as if she was scared that somebody could see her. _Just come in. You'll manage._

The sign on the gate said _Wool's orphanage._

For a several moments, Thyra stood in front of it, feeling emotions she had never felt before in such violent strength overwhelm her. She was angry and sad, she mourned her parents and hated them, all the people in the world, and herself. In the end, she simply grabbed handle of the suitcase, pulling it with all the strength she had, and walked toward the entrance.

* * *

Inside the air was suffocating and felt like sweat, dust and cooked food. The matron had already expected her to arrive and helped her place her stuff into a room at the end of the corridor, which she was to share with three other girls.

Thyra had no wish to introduce herself. Nor to talk. She had no desire for life. During the lunch she would sit at the table, playing with the food rather than eating it, with a dull expression in her eyes.

Children found her weird. One day, they gathered around her and started mocking her. She tried to walk away, to ignore. When a boy caught her by the arm trying to hold her back, she took out all the anger and years of neglect and violence on him. Her touch left a deep burn on the boy's arm, and from then, Thyra was left at peace.

The only one who didn't fear her was a pale, dark-haired boy who would rarely show up at lunch. He was quiet, and avoided by others, just like her. When their eyes would meet, she felt something strange. He would observe her for a long time, not looking away, and in these moments she felt as if, after weeks of bluntness, her senses have woken again.

Many things connected her with Tom Riddle. They were both rejects, and both carried hidden, personal pain with them.

And they both had magic.

Not heeding the whispers about him, or the little hypocrits who said that he was dangerous, Thyra approached him. Back then, she really did believe that Tom was a victim of their gossip, and that things he'd done were out of self-defense. When she later realized that wasn't the case, it was already too late.

She said nothing, only walked to him while he sat alone on one of the benches outside the orphanage building, carrying a wrinkled paper in her hand. When he noticed her, she set the paper afire with magic, and let the flames dance between her fingers, flickering in the cold autumn wind, and there was no need for any words.

Their eyes had already said it all.

* * *

She told him everything she knew about magic and the wizarding world, about the life without hiding from Muggles, about moving pictures and magical creatures. He'd gladly listen to all of her stories, especially the ones about her family past, during which some strange kind of greed curved his handsome features. Thyra noticed that with every spoken word of her pure-blooded, powerful, corrupted family, her worth in Tom's eyes grew.

This both scared and confused her. Thyra knew that Tom Riddle was a strange boy, that was clear from the first time they met; and not solely because of magic. Though they spent almost all of their time together, he was still unfathomable to her. She could never guess what he's up to, neither had an encounter with someone of her age with magic so developed, even without tutoring. Endless surprises were sometimes pleasant, and sometimes they could make her blood boil.

But she kept telling stories: of distant Romanian mountains where the dragons were first born, magical smell of thousand year old books in her house library, Godric's Hollow, spells, another world where people like them belonged. Being the only witch and wizard in their surroundings was enough to create an invisible, but strong bond. He was her piece of magic in the Muggle world, as she was his, and that was just enough to draw them together.

"Do dragons still exist?" he once asked her.

"Of course they do. Not as big as they were several centuries ago, though. Drakuleshtis had the strongest and largest dragons in Europe, but they all died long before my family moved here. There are still some in Britain, but I think people approach them in a wrong way."

"And how is that?" Tom raised his eyebrows.

"They are kept in captivity, and in fact, nobody is able to tame them. Enclosed space and darkness don't do dragons well. They need to be free. I think it affects their growth," Thyra replied with a shrud.

"Well, I wouldn't excatly call it _wrong approach._ Nobody is foolish enough to release a beast that cannot be controlled."

"Dragons are no _beasts_ ," Thyra retorted, for some reason feeling attacked. "People made them that way."

"If we only could control dragons... the first thing I would tell them to do is set this place on fire.'' With these words, Tom's eyes became slightly distant, a smirk upon his lips as he withdrew into thoughts.

"I don't believe that _anybody_ can control them. You can only...get closer to them." Thyra sighed. "I can't explain it to you, and even if I could you wouldn't understand."

"As if you _do_ understand," he mocked, throwing a ragged pillow to her face. "Having famous relativies doesn't mean you drank all sense of the world.''

Then there was laughter. Not being able to even smile ever since the incident with her parents, in these moments lightweight, contagious laughter overwhelmed Thyra, a pure impulse of happiness, caused not as much by the situation as by the person she was with. Tom would look at her with a raised eyebrow, torn between annoyance and amusement, and at last either throw another pillow or scream: "Shut up already!"

"For God's sake," he asked afterwards, as Thyra's fingers wiped off tears of joy from the corners of her eyes, "what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," her lips curved into a mild smile. "I'm simply happy."

* * *

With the first spring sun, Mrs Cole took all the orphans on a trip. It was long since Thyra had arrived city that was still seemed so strange to her, with its grey buildings that touched lead sky, and facing beauty and magnificence of nature once again left her breathless. Wavy sea spread in front of them, dark and enormous; for a moment, she imagined herself flying on a dragon's back above its surface, feeling salty air in eyes and nostrils, letting it fill her lungs. Tom, though, did not seem taken by the landscape. The time they spent together taught Thyra one thing: this calm, oddly blank expression on his face, with mildly raised eyebrows, meant that he is up to something.

"Come with me," she heard a voice beside her say. Two of the children split from the rest of the group, running farther from the coast to a small grove. In a few minutes, they were surrounded by the whispering leaves and fresh, pleasant smell of earth.

"I can talk to snakes," Tom said suddenly, full of himself.

Thyra stared at him unblinkendly. "What?"

"You heard me," he smirked, "I waited for the opportunity to show you. Now watch."

Tom chrouched into the grass, quiet, listening to whispers of the woods.

"I don't think there are any snakes here," Thyra's voice broke the silence after a few moments. "Even if there are, they are hiding."

"We won't be looking for them," replied Tom absently, his eyes focused on something she couldn't see. "They will find _us._ "

Just when Thyra started thinking that he must be going mad, the sound of strange hissing emerged from the grass. It was a noise she'd never heard before: alike to the sound snakes made, but stronger, rougher. And it was _Tom's._

He spoke to the earth, hissing, whispering in a hoarse voice, until green head of a snake, almost merging with forest green, appeared. Tom spoke, and the snake answered, in a whisper softer than water, almost touching his face.

Thyra never beheld such a sight, such a connection. She observed this unusal scene, quiet and astonished. Tom turned and glanced at her smugly, obviously enjoying her amazement." There are more," he said, "They have a lair here. Perhaps the rest will arrive." At these words, Thyra's body impulsively twitched. The snake obviously didn't like her very much.

"Don't worry, she won't hurt you... as long as I tell her not to." He rose from the ground, leaning on his knees. When listening carefully, Thyra could recognize strangely misshapen words in his hissing.

"I hear her whispers," he said quietly, in English. "I talk to her the way I talk to you, or anyone else."

"You don't talk to anyone else,'' Thyra replied, even quieter."What does she say?''

Tom gazed into the distance again, with a slight smile."That this forest has many secrets hidden."

* * *

This trip ended tragically. Two of the orphans, Amy and Denis, showed up in front of Ms Cole, wet and shaking and obviously in shock. At first, Thyra hoped this had nothing to do with Tom, who had mysteriously disappeared at the same time the two orphans did and returned several hours later, but it was no use to turn head from the truth. In front of her, he didn't even try to deny it.

"What have you done to them?" she asked him after they returned into the orphanage.

"Nothing they didn't deserve," he snapped.

Thyra approached him a few steps, reducing the space between them. Repressing emotions she's had down to a fine art, but somehow he'd find a way to flare up all the cumulated anger inside her. "Listen here. We are not supposed to perform magic in front of anyone. I told you that already, and I was very serious."

The look Tom gave her was cold as ice. "But _you_ performed magic in front of me. Besides, there's nothing to worry about. They won't _ever_ tell a word about what they have seen, that I'm sure of." He grinned.

"But you are a wizard! It's not the same!"

"You didn't know that."

Thyra frowned. "It's just… I don't understand. What could they possibly have done to deserve this?"

"To deserve this?'' Tom's lips curled into a bitter, mocking grin as he spoke. "They did nothing. Because they _don't dare_. Thyra, they are not like us. It makes them think they are powerful because there is more of them than us, but I proved them wrong. You think that, if I had no magic, they wouldn't do the same to me?"

He cut her off as soon as she opened her mouth. "Haven't they tried to hector you when you arrived? For no other reason than that you were different from them. Well, I don't need any other reason to harm them but this: they are Muggles and I am a wizard. What do _you_ even know of this? _I_ 've been putting up with them my entire life, and you cannot grasp how much I hate both them and this place."

"You're just angry and full of prejudices. Things aren't that simple.'' Thyra shook her head, trying hard to be convincing to him and even more to herself, but in some distant corner of her mind, there was a voice saying _he's right_ _..._ _at least partly_. She looked away, but somehow sensing her inner conflict, Tom did something strange – he took her by the chin and turned her face to his, eye to eye.

''You know you agree," he said quietly.

Thyra gazed into his serious, deep eyes, and a strange, unknown feeling permeated her body. She remained quiet, until Tom stepped back and released her. When the door closed behind him, for some reason, she had to take a very deep breath.

* * *

The first time she had seen Dumbledore was a sultry summer day. The hot heaviness in the air made her feel exhausted. Life in the orphanage, crying of the babies in the night and smell of diapers wore her out. No matter how much angry she was with the wizarding world, she was still a part of it, and ached with longing to return where she belonged.

When Ms Cole knocked on the door, telling them than a man has arrived and wanted to talk to them, a sudden rush of excitement rushed through Thyra's body. "He wishes to speak with you separately," Ms Cole added, and in that moment Thyra felt Tom's fingers firmly clutching her wrist.

"Separately," he said dryly. "That won't happen. They came to take you away," he told her. "To separate us. _That won't be_. Where you go, I go as well."

Before she could reply, a man of very striking appearance entered the room. He was dressed in a dark plum robe with golden embriodery, that in some way resembled clothes Thyra's father used to wear. Auburn locks framed his face of mild expression, with piercing blue eyes that observed two orphans. Though not stern, something about his visage reflected strong intellect and determination. This was a man older than his body, wise beyond his years.

He could not separate them, despite calmly explaining the reason of his arrival. Not then, not many years after. Though Dumbledore did think it unusual, he did not appreciate the complexity of the bond that developed between Tom and Thyra.

And that is why it only grew stronger.

* * *

 _Present_

Thyra looked out the blurry window. Chilly and quiet november evening wrapped Hogwarts in its dark cloak, and the scent of winter already felt in the cool air. For a moment, a wave of nostalgia has woken in her chest, an old, almost painful longing for all the times she'd sneaked away on such evenings, running to the Forbidden forest with ecstatic nervousness of a woman who hurried to meet her lover.

"My mother despised me," these words came unexpected, as if they had always been suppressed somewhere in the depth of her mind, and now finally broke out. Dumbledore looked at her with interest.

"It was easy to notice, through her words, her moves... probably because I resembled father more. I felt a stranger in my own home because of her detachment and coldness." Thyra sighed - some wounds never truly disappear, but instead turn into scars etched deep into our mind, that sting again at the every reminiscence.

"That brought us together, Riddle and I. We both descended from dreaded and great families, that shrank to several insignificant leftovers who weren't worth its reputation. But what the two of us had done..." her lips couldn't sustain a smirk. "None of them could even think of."

She offered no further explanation, and Dumbledore didn't insist. Another picture from the past crossed her mind: for a moment Thyra could feel Tom's dark, wet hair beneath her fingers and scent of stingy autumn rain once again, and hear her own hushed voice:

 _If all of them would gather together and shout, it wouldn't be louder than your whisper._


	3. Taste of power

**III** **The taste of power**

" _Thyra gave him a long, deep look, thankful that he ignored it, for in that look hid much of the unsaid that both frightened and excited her…"_

 **A/N: Here is a longer chapter, diving into Tom and Thyra's fifth year at Hogwarts – the beginning of something new, splendid and frightening. Reviews are always appreciated.**

* * *

It was a hot September day, time of the year when summer slowly dies out, followed by heavy, soporific sultriness. For Thyra Drakuleshti, it was a time when she would finally come alive again.

After another summer spent in the orphanage, where everything was wrapped in prosaicness and couldn't differ more from Hogwarts' magical beauty, even sitting in an old, stifling classroom seemed refreshing. The dusty air felt like sweat and old nutwood, mixed with sweetness of orchids that stood on professor's desk. Thyra's fellow Slytherins didn't share her enthusiasm about the beginning of the new school year. Aria Flint, the girl who sat next to Thyra, with cheek flabbily leaned against a hand, tried hard not to slumber away. When Aria's eyes finally shut, her head slipped and hit against the desk.

 _They don't even know how lucky they are_ , Thyra thought, gazing afar into the only other person in the room who was a careful listener as well. Tom's dark, cautious eyes followed professor's every move, with a dose of restraint in his posture he would always manifest on Dumbeldore's classes. She knew him well enough to recognize it, and had a clear picture in mind of what expression on Tom's face would look like at the moment, though from this seat in the back of class only the dark-haired nape of his neck and handsome profile were visible to her.

Thyra was not as impressed by Transfiguration, as she was with professor who introduced her to Hogwarts in a tiny orphanage room on a summer day, five years ago. He was quiet, pleasant and unassuming, but his powers surpassed those of wizards with far more experience and self-pride. The connection Dumbledore shared with a phoenix, his faithful companion in every class, was something way deeper and more complex than an ordinary relation between a man and an animal. That indestructible and magnificent creature, loyal for life to only one man and always his defender, woke in Thyra some perplexing and unexplainable feeling.

Time flew, and somewhere in the background she could hear Dumbledore's even voice as she observed phoenix Fawkes. For a moment it seemed to her that its tiny, dark eyes, stopped at her face.

"Today's lesson is finished," said Dumbledore in a louder voice, startling her. "Are there any questions?"

Before she'd even been aware that her lips are moving, Thyra heard her voice echoing in the quiet classroom. "Professor, for how long have you had your phoenix?"

Thirty people in the classroom turned around at this unexpected question. Dumbledore looked at her inquisitively behind his half-moon spectacles. "For many years," he said, stroking tawny feathers on Fawkes' head with his fingers. "I was a young man when we had our first… encounter."

"And was it only you who's owned him, or…? Forgive me, if I may ask this?'' added Thyra, switching to usual polite tone.

Somehow, she already knew an answer to that question.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, "A lifelong bond."

His piercing eyes were carefully studying Thyra's face, trying to grasp the thoughts that laid within. She took note of it, feeling a bit unpleasant, and spoke out again to break the silence.

''They are truly impressive. I read a lot about them. They never really die, do they?''

Dumbledore remained quiet for a few moments before replying. "They do die… but rise again from their ashes.''

Bell rang announcing the class is over before Thyra could think of anything to add. With two large books in her hands, she headed towards the door, her eyes quickly searching the classroom for Tom. Uncovered discontent that could be seen in his usually indifferent expression was somehow entertaining. Though their abilities of charming people of authority were incomparable, Dumbledore was the only professor who preferred Thyra over Tom, regardless of her occasional bluntness and obvious lack of tact.

"Got something to say?" a slight smirk curled her lips. Tom turned his head, with expression of forced indifference.

"No, what do you mean?"

"You cannot be every teacher's pet."

"Not that I care about that, really."

Thyra gave him a long, deep look, thankful that he ignored it, for in that look hid much of the unsaid that both frightened and excited her.

"We'll meet later at the lunch," he said, "I have something important to talk to you about."

As Thyra walked down the hallway, heading for Slytherin dormitories, she heard a mocking whisper in the background. ''Did you see how she sucked up to him?''

Urge to turn was strong, though she knew it wasn't worth it. But then, not a second later, a petty voice of Gregory Selwyn, unsuited to his appearance, broke through the hallway. "I hear you are an excellent asslicker, Thyra."

Thyra felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. She turned to Selwyn, whose smug grin triggered both fury and disgust. Behind him, arms crossed, stood Selwyn's minion, the fifth year Thyra always despised, widely known for impudence and tampering with older boys – the wealthier and older, the better. Whispers in the dormitories and girl bathrooms said that she let them do what they wanted with her body, and got much in return – for one, the pleasure of being seen around with school's elite, accessing their circle, and harassing younger students in the hallways.

"What did you say?" Thyra said through her teeth as she approached Selwyn, hoping that voice didn't betray how badly the remark stung her.

"I'm asking you," he leaned his face towards hers so closely their noses were almost touching, "did you get your nose dirty with Dumbledore's shit?"

Deafening laughter rang through the hallway. Thyra pulled out her wand, but Selwyn disarmed her right away. She swore softly. For ineptitude with wand, as with many other matters, Thyra blamed her parents. Since her childhood they insisted on wandless magic, after the _ancient_ Drakuleshti custom that wasn't held to anymore for decades before her birth.

Selwyn was obviously expecting her to try and pick up her wand, but instead she pulled out quite heavy _History of Magic_ from her bag and hit him on the head with all the strength she could gather. Selwyn staggered back a few steps, then straightened up, redness creeping up his cheeks, his eyes frantic with fury.

"DRAKULESHTI!" a screeching voice startled them. "For Merlin's sake, what are you doing?!"

"She attacked me, professor!" Selwyn cried out, now sounding like a squealing pig. "She struck me with _History of Magic_ , see how red my cheek is…"

"With _History of Magic_ ," professor Merryweather said through her teeth. Thyra faced her stern eyes, that almost screamed _detention_ behind square glasses.

* * *

After four hours of writing _I will control my temper_ on the table without magic, Thyra finally left the History Magic classroom, tired and even angrier, thinking of the worst way she would get revenge on this old hen professor. Detention obviously didn't help with controlling her temper, but Thyra knew what would.

Dusk has silently and insensibly descended over Hogwarts, coloring the sky into a gentle, pale violet color. Thyra raised a hood, disguise that perfectly melted with her dark hair, making her a shadow in the evening. She walked swiftly towards the astronomy tower, a place where Tom and she would often go, though without permission. It was a place where they could enjoy rare moments of silent peace, away from noise present everywhere else in their lives. Four years have passed since their arrival to Hogwarts, and here on the top of Astronomy tower, they could again be the two children who once laid on the rooftop of orphanage daydreaming about distant wizarding world, witnessed by no one but the stars in wide sky above.

She wasn't certain if Tom would be there, but that wasn't important anyway. Fresh evening breeze soothed the fire that was burning in her chest, and on top of the Tower with Hogwarts spreading below, she felt safe.

Hogwarts was the first place Thyra could call home. Everything about her that she has despised – traces of ancestry left in her behavior, speech, appearance – became virtues the very moment The Sorting Hat had touched her head and exclaimed SLYTHERIN.

Most of her peers looked upon this with admiration and jealousy. For the rest of the world, funny child from a family of violent lunatics, and for Slytherins Thyra of the noble house Drakuleshti, blood of the dragon. Still, sometimes she felt just an insignificant orphan in patched, second-hand robes. Years later, that ever present yearning for sense of belonging will make her do things that then were hardly imaginable..

Light steps disturbed the silence, and Thyra heard a familiar, deep voice that gave her chills.

"You got detention _again_ ," Tom said, emerging from the darkness, approaching a few steps as his dark cloak almost stealthily fluttered around his feet.

"I hit him with _History of Magic_." Thyra murmured, not turning, her gaze lost somewhere in the distance.

"Since you had already attacked him, you could have used a wand at least."

Thyra laughed sarcastically. "He's not even worth it.''

"How come he disarmed you, then? ''

"Asshole," she murmured.

"What did you say?"

"Always well informed," she snorted, turning to him. Outlines of his pale countenance could be glimpsed in now thick darkness that shadowed his cheeks and made his eyes seem even deeper and greedier.

"You have so much anger," Tom's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, his look sparkling with malice as he spoke. "Since you cannot get rid yourself of it, why not save it for the ones who really deserve it?"

Thyra frowned, but said nothing.

"You have tried all your life to fit in with this society. How has that worked out so far?"

"Very well, actually," she said cooly. "I received more bullying from _pure-blooded_ fat Selwyn than all the rest of school combined."

"At least he said it to your face… Don't you think others say it behind your back? All those humble and good-hearted Mudbloods and their protectors? Supporters of equality they don't even believe in?"

"If this is about including me to your group of pals, that won't be. I won't run around harassing first years, waiting for you to throw me a treat."

She has witnessed over the years how her friend's presence magnetically drew people to him, just as much as it had repelled them at the orphanage, in muggle surroundings. How his unassuming charm, sharp mind and calm confidence won both their respect and affection. Tom learned exactly how to get whatever he wanted from anyone, whether through gentle words or intimidation – he adjusted his methods to each person alone, making them feel unique, special. It was just that some liked to _feel the whip_ , and some did not.

For some reason, Thyra didn't like this at all.

Tom laughed her remark off. "Tell me, have you ever given any thought to what will you do after we leave Hogwarts?" Silence hung for several seconds, but Thyra knew she wasn't expected to reply – he already had a ready answer for that question. "Get some minor job in the Ministry? Remember, Slughorn might be taken with you, but with that background, there will not be many opportunities to prosper."

A slight smirk curled his lips, now standing so close Thyra could feel tickling of his warm breath on her neck, making every inch of its skin prickle. She couldn't tell whether that or his words disturbed her more.

"You will never be one of them," he whispered softly. "However hard you try… nobody will ever see beyond your heritage."

Thyra was biting hard onto her lips, trying not to say something she would regret later. These words left a deep mark to her memory. "Release from that bondage, and take part in forming a new world, the one where you wouldn't have to change… where you would be free."

Tom smiled softly, sensing the struggle that raged inside of her. "I have great plans for this year, Thyra…and for many others that are to come. I want you at my disposal."

"To serve your purpose?" she retorted, not daring to face his piercing eyes.

" _Our_ purpose. It is duty of each individual of magical blood to do so, and ensure future develops in the right direction."

"What do you want from me, in the end?"

"Stay loyal to _me_."

Their eyes met; his shimmering with mischief like onyx, hers a firm, indifferent surface, hiding the thoughts within its depths. "I'm as loyal to you as you are to me. And the problem with you is that blind conviction that you can persuade and manipulate me by hitting so low, bringing out the most painful parts of my past and using them as it suits you… but I've seen you do that to the others already. Don't forget, I know you too, much better than you can imagine. Since you talk about accepting one's heritage… accept that one of your parents was a Muggle, _Riddle._ "

Tom's features were now twisted in cold anger. Mouth tightened, the look in his eyes was almost insane. _He could kill me now_ , it occurred to Thyra. Somehow, the thought made her feel a rush of excitement, and instead of backing away, she spoke on. "Don't you think I haven't seen how obsessive you are about proving your papa was a wizard… to others, or to yourself?"

His hand jerked, as if he tried to reach out for a wand. _Do it now_ , Thyra exulted. _Strangle me or kiss me…or both_. _Do something, say something._

But Tom did neither. He turned on his heel and disappeared in the darkness, his quick steps echoing the stairs.

As soon as Thyra was released from intoxicating power of his look, feebleness overcame her, replacing the fiery anger. All insecurities and fears that had been poisoning her for years suddenly exploded, salty wetness silently gliding down her nose and cheeks, followed by a shaking, uncontrollable sob.

* * *

That, as many other nights, Thyra dreamt of her dead parents, of one very remarkable memory that was bound to them – the first spell.

Rhaenesa and Theodor were just getting into one of their usual daily fights, and six year old Thyra sat and watched, still not completely aware how harsh were the words they threw at one another, but instead angry that neither paid attention to her. In the end, she somehow set a fire to the curtains, and that to the old, smelly ones Rhaenesa has brought as her wedding gift and never let Thyra come close to. Both of her parents stared at her for a moment or two, in dead silence. Then they both ran to her and laughed and kissed and hugged her. ''Our girl is no squib _._ Her first spell! And I was convinced she'll be left without magic, taking after your dear sister,'' Rhaenesa didn't miss an opportunity to bring her husband down. But, only then, Theodor sustained a reply, and even she managed to grasp how senseless it would be to ruin the moment. They hugged together like a real family, Rhaenesa's eyes sparkled with pride, an honest smile upon her lips that faded frown wrinkles and returned a glimpse of youthful beauty to her face, and even Theodor's tired and cold look now seemed warmer, more approachable.

That was how Thyra had remembered it, but then, something strange happened. Rhaenesa's eyes turned red, and her pleasant voice became venomous hissing. She shook Thyra by the shoulders, as if she's desperately trying to warn her of something, or perhaps seek help. All of sudden, a penetrative roar filled the air and every pinpoint of Thyra's being. Rhaenesa was now gone and so was the room they were in and so was everything else in the world, there was only fire, and Thyra let that fire consume her, she breathed it in, letting it cleanse her, bless her…

"THYRA!" A small hand shook her, trying to wake her up. Thyra opened her eyes with a gasp and saw Aria Flint's face leaned above hers.

"Oh, thanks God! You are awake!" she sighed with relief. Thyra could see several figures in the darkness gathered around her bedside.

"Why is everyone here?" Thyra murmured.

"You were shouting something senseless, in a foreign language, and jerked… it was terrible, like you had some sort of attack! We couldn't wake you up… a-are you okay now?"

"But she managed to wake us up," a thin voice said.

Thyra ran a hand across her forehead, wiping off the sweat. "I'm well, it was just a bad dream."

"A bad dream?" repeated the same voice cooly. ''What kind of dream was that, I wonder, that it cost us all sleep.''

It belonged to Alicia, the person whose face Thyra so longed to smash in their fight after Dumbledore's class. "You without makeup in the morning," Thyra hissed back at her.

Alicia laughed, but her eyes remained cold as ice. "See," she said, "there is nothing wrong with her." In that moment, she resembled Rhaenesa so much that it made Thyra wince with disgust.

"Thyra, you should go to the hospital wing," Aria gave Thyra a worried look, ignoring Alicia's remark.

"No need," Thyra replied. "I'll be fine. Go and sleep."

"But… if you…"

"Aria, it won't happen again, I promise. Just go and sleep." Her voice was tired, but firm. Aria reached out for her hand, held it firmly for a moment, as if she's trying to instill a little bit of strength through touch, then slowly rose, walking away.

''Aria,'' Thyra repeated, feeling the sudden warmth in her chest dispel traces of bad dream, ''Thank you.'' Aria nodded, giving her an encouraging smile.

* * *

Thyra felt at least a dozen pairs of eyes follow her as she walked to the Slytherin table. Now pretty much everybody was aware of the last night's event, and that must have spiced her reputation up even more. It's already been two weeks during which Tom and she didn't say a word to each other. This morning, Thyra took a seat across from him instead at her usual place amongst other girls, giving him a quite uncomfortable stare, but Tom pretended not to notice her, and after several minutes filled with tension, he rose without a word and walked away.

"You look terrible," Avery told her while chewing on a piece of bread.

"Thanks, you've always been a gentleman."

"What happened last night? We heard some shouting from the girl dormitories."

"You surely did. It wasn't that loud. Some girl told you."

"Well, as if that matters…"

"I have nothing to tell you," Thyra interrupted him. "And tell Tom Riddle that if he wants to know, he can ask me himself."

Saying this, she got up and left in hurry. For a moment it was so eerily quiet she could hear the sound of her footsteps.

* * *

Tom walked down the hallway with one of the Slytherins whose name he didn't even remember, listening to an endless rambling about racing broomsticks, feeling a strong urge to take out a wand and hex him. Again, a thought slipped into his mind, _I wish Thyra was in this idiot's place_.

That made him feel even angrier, especially because his thorough research _did_ prove what he's known for a long time, but never wanted to admit. He couldn't find any connection between his father and the wizarding world. Who was then the woman who died bringing him forth, and gave him such an odd name? It must have been her who passed ability of Parseltongue to him. Was she, then, related to Slytherin? If so, how come she met such an _ordinary_ , merely human end?

Tom was lost in thoughts, aware of the sound of boy's voice but not listening to his words, when something caught his attention. A sound, so familiar, yet the one he had never heard here before.

 _Come to me_.

Tom suddenly stopped and listened, straining his ears. _I want to kill._ He couldn't figure out where the voice came from, but it was like nothing he had ever heard before – harsh and deep hissing that filled the hallway like haunting, eerie melody. _I want to taste blood. Come to me._ Tom's fingers ran down the walls, he pressed his ears to the cold stone, but the sound seemed to fade out…

"Um, Riddle, are you alright…Hey, common room is this way!"

Tom didn't answer. He walked swiftly down the other end of the hallway, and soon disappeared from the boy's sight.

Thyra shuffled her feet to Slytherin common room, searching for Yaxley, who asked her for help with Ancient Runes. They barely ever spoke to one another, and Thyra truly wanted to answer with _ask Riddle_ , but having in mind that Tom surely couldn't wait for an excuse to make others as ireful with her as he was, it didn't seem like a good idea at that moment.

Anyways, Tom was obviously too busy these days to deal with Yaxley's runes, it couldn't escape her notice. Even in classes he lacked his usual impeccable concentration and sharp, quick tongue. Distant in thoughts and irritable, he would spend most of his time in the library, with head buried in books.

At Thyra's displeasure, he was sitting leaned back in a chair when she came in, and his dark eyes met hers for a second. As soon as she sat next to Yaxley, Tom got up and left, at the eyes of everyone present in the room, who immediately connected that sudden walkout to Thyra's arrival and started whispering.

"Looks like everyone's happy I'm here," she murmured.

"I doubt it's because of you," Yaxley said quietly. "He's been like this for days. Yesterday I found him in the library. He was reading some _genealogy_ , and it was the biggest book I've seen in my life. Not that I don't appreciate our blood, but Merlin himself wouldn't be able to make me read that sh…"

"What genealogy?" Thyra interrupted him.

"I don't know, but he was really angry when he saw me. A man would think I caught him reading smut."

Several moments passed in silence. "Yaxley," Thyra said, putting arms to his shoulders. "We'll talk later. Sorry."

"But, _runes_? "

"Damn runes, " she murmured grimly.

* * *

Soon she was at the door of library, feeling the familiar powdery scent of old books tickle her nostrils. She walked carefully to Mrs Graham's table, turning to see if anybody could see her.

"Ma'am," Thyra spoke to her lightly. "Tom Riddle sent me, to take back that genealogy he was reading yesterday. He's still interested in some data so he changed his mind."

Mrs Graham gave her an indifferent look, while Thyra tried to seem as innocent as possible. After several moments, she was running up the stairs with huge book hidden under her robe.

Its content was very comprehensive, with family trees of wizarding families dating from 1600s. Many of them were long extinct. Thyra was turning page after page, not even sure what she's looking for, when a name caught her eye.

 _Gaunt_. She wasn't sure she had ever known someone with that name, or even heard it before, but it still seemed somehow familiar. They obviously weren't a prominent family, for there was almost no information related to them, only quite short lineage she didn't give a proper look to. Thyra sighed, slamming the book. It seemed that she had no choice but to ask Tom. Perhaps they should talk, after all…

* * *

The last class that day – potions - was about to begin, and muttering and laughter of children was still present in the dark classroom. Thyra was chatting with Aria Flint, brown haired girl with guileless and open eyes blue as the summer sky, but unexpectedly sharp wits. With her, conversation was somehow light and unstrung, and that was something Thyra couldn't achieve with anyone but Tom by now. _How hadn't I noticed that earlier?_

"I'd like to work as a teacher," Aria said. "Care of the Magical Creatures is my favorite subject, I've always loved animals. My parents wish me to marry after I finish school, though." Her voice was impassive, as if she's trying to cover up slightest trace of emotion while saying this.

"Someone of their choice, I suppose?" Thyra looked at her with understanding that required no words.

"Well, yes. Some cousin proposed to me, I've seen him twice in my life, and he only spoke about fish. It's probably his favorite food, he also smelled of it. But father says he's a good match, since they're an old family…" she sighed.

That sentence initiated something in Thyra's memory, but she couldn't grasp it entirely… and then, suddenly, she realized.

"Gaunt," she whispered in a harsh voice. The name Rhaenesa mentioned many years ago to Theodor.

 _Gaunts are the descendants of Slytherin, allegedly. That old fart Marvolo wanted me to marry his son, and his daughter to wed my brother._ Rhaenesa laughed mockingly at this. _How dared he! They lived like pigs. He was even surprised that my father refused. But dragon doesn't mate with snakes, and especially not the ones that smell of rust!_

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," Thyra whispered feverishly. "Nothing…"

Thyra scanned the room looking for Tom, but he was not in the class. As soon as the bell rung, she ran down to the library hoping to find him, and stumbled upon him in one of the corridors just in front of the library doors. Not paying attention to the mixture of confusion and restraint reflected on Tom's face, she pulled him by the hand to a corner, turning to see if anybody could hear them. It was empty.

Thyra said the first thing that was on her mind.

"You're the heir of Slytherin."

Tom's eyes widened as he stared at her, trying to act indifferent. "How do you know that for sure?"

"Your middle name is Marvolo," said Thyra quickly, running short of breath. "Marvolo is your grandfather. He is of the Gaunts, the last known descendants of Slytherin. I took that book Yaxley told me you read the other day, and the name sounded familiar to me. Now I have realized, my mother talked about him. Marvolo had two children, a daughter and a son. He wanted the son to marry Rhaenesa, and daughter to marry Rhaenesa's brother, but they refused him. The daughter… she must have been your mother."

Tom grabbed her by the shoulders, his features twisted with excitement and dismay. "Are you entirely sure about this?"

Thyra nodded energetically. She was now only an inch away from him, closer than ever. That realization sent a rush of excitement through her body. "You're the heir of Slytherin," she repeated quietly, almost whispering.

Tom had a thousand words to say, but something made him remain quiet for a long moment. "Why are you looking at me like this?" The sound of his deep voice gave Thyra goosebumps. He was now so close she could see tiniest beads of sweat on his forehead, and eyes dark as depths of a well, that reflected the hunger Thyra had never glimpsed before, making her feel overwrought. She was afraid to speak or move, for it would break this vigorous, intoxicating connection between them never felt before in such intensity.

"It's a good thing you're not a Legilimens… yet," Thyra said, and pressed lips onto his, pouring all she couldn't say into a long, passionate kiss. For the first time since they met, she let emotions completely overwhelm her as her lips searched for his with bruising kisses. Tom kissed her back, wrapping a hand around her waist and pressing her against the wall. Pressure of his body made her feel smaller than ever in his arms. Tom, always cold and sober, even as a child, now kissed her wildly, stormily, completely unrestrained. Thyra let out a low sigh when Tom's lips reached her neck, and pulled his face next to hers again, biting on his bottom lip until she felt the taste of blood, sweeter than anything she had ever tasted. The taste of passion. The taste of power.


End file.
